Spike (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
idolpire) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
riverviewlogs2017-08-29 06:04 pm
idolpire) wrote in riverviewlogs2017-08-29 06:04 pm
Entry tags:
Closed
who: Spike and John Wick
what: Bitchy fighting between whatever the hell they are
when: Before the building fire
where: John's home
warnings: Language. Violence. Feeding/Blood. Possibly sex? Will update if needed.
After he and John had left the hospital, he'd called him up before his date with Buffy. Spike had been so uncertain about it, he hadn't heard the distance starting in John's tone, hadn't really picked at the words that were already building a wall between them. It was a full week after before he realized that he hadn't heard from or seen the man who had been something akin to a shadow in his life since he'd gotten here. Quiet, often unseen, but always there.
So he'd tried calling. It had gone to voicemail. He'd called again. He'd texted. He'd felt like a bloody idiot, going back through their interactions to see what he'd done to have pissed him off. Whatever John and he were, he'd thought they were at least friends. There was something that kept them circling around each other, and it rubbed him in all the wrong ways to know that he was being intentionally ignored.
So come nightfall, Spike found himself working up a good head of mad, downing a bottle of whiskey on the way to John's from his crypt. It took awhile, what with him being outside the fence and John's home being in it, but he just worked up his mad all the way there, talking aloud to himself as he stalked towards his target, drinking from the bottle until by the time he was stomping up the steps, there was an inch or two of dark liquid left in the bottom. Spike stepped up to the door and booted it open, walking in and taking in a deep breath, picking up the scent of John and his dog. "Honey! I'm bloody well home!"
what: Bitchy fighting between whatever the hell they are
when: Before the building fire
where: John's home
warnings: Language. Violence. Feeding/Blood. Possibly sex? Will update if needed.
After he and John had left the hospital, he'd called him up before his date with Buffy. Spike had been so uncertain about it, he hadn't heard the distance starting in John's tone, hadn't really picked at the words that were already building a wall between them. It was a full week after before he realized that he hadn't heard from or seen the man who had been something akin to a shadow in his life since he'd gotten here. Quiet, often unseen, but always there.
So he'd tried calling. It had gone to voicemail. He'd called again. He'd texted. He'd felt like a bloody idiot, going back through their interactions to see what he'd done to have pissed him off. Whatever John and he were, he'd thought they were at least friends. There was something that kept them circling around each other, and it rubbed him in all the wrong ways to know that he was being intentionally ignored.
So come nightfall, Spike found himself working up a good head of mad, downing a bottle of whiskey on the way to John's from his crypt. It took awhile, what with him being outside the fence and John's home being in it, but he just worked up his mad all the way there, talking aloud to himself as he stalked towards his target, drinking from the bottle until by the time he was stomping up the steps, there was an inch or two of dark liquid left in the bottom. Spike stepped up to the door and booted it open, walking in and taking in a deep breath, picking up the scent of John and his dog. "Honey! I'm bloody well home!"
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"That's not what I did. Not what I meant to do." John rubs a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through dark of his beard. A hair or two more silver than last he'd seen Spike. The first sign that John's not doing as well on his own as he'd like Spike to believe.
"I was trying to make things easier, for the both of us. You had a lot on your plate. The chip, the Slayer, and you, what happened back home. I didn't want to complicate matters. That's all. Thought you'd do well with some space. Help you figure things out." What John doesn't say is he didn't expect Spike would be coming after him, or why he might. That lies unspoken, somewhere beneath everything else. He takes another drink.
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"Say what, that I've got a problem with you being what you are? You're a vampire. I knew that from the get-go, and I don't take issue with it, now, or then. I've killed plenty of people for less dignified reasons than putting food on the table." He sets his glass on the coffee table, ignoring Spike's boots, for all that they irritate him, so he can lean forward and make proper eye contact.
"I like you Spike, even when you're a jackass. You should know that by now. We had a good thing. It was the first time in a long time I didn't feel alone, and I want to thank you for that. Truly." He takes a deep breath. John is a man of many skills, but self-expression isn't one them.
"But you and the Slayer, that's... If she's telling the truth, and what you have together is real, that's not something you should let pass you by. Not on my account." John's fingers clench into the knees of his pants.
"I was doing you a favour."
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He moved to get up, glowering down at John and pointing a finger at him. "I make my decisions, Wick. I'm tired of having everyone else make them for me. You don't get to do that. She doesn't either. It's my bloody life."
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"Seeing you in that hospital bed made me realize I can't lose you, too. It was easier to give you up, so I didn't have to. So I could at least tell myself it was my choice, this time." John's throat is tight, it feels like he's grating out every word. His heart beats hard, and fast. Like a machine gone against his ribs. Blood and adrenaline spiking hot through his veins.
"My other friend here, James Flint, he's gone. I don't know where. If they took him, or he left-" John braces a hand against his head, and sits back down. It all feels like too much. John's strong, but the demons at his back and biting at his heels, waiting for him to fall so they can consume him, are so much stronger than he is.
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He doesn't know what else to say. What else he can do. John doesn't know what he wants, but it isn't this. If Spike knew what was good for him, he would leave John alone. Before John could drag him down to his own special hell, like he has everyone else he's given a damn about.
Spike could be happy with Buffy. She seems like a nice girl, beneath the leather and stakes, and John wants him to find that happiness. Everyone deserves to be in love, and despite his protests, Spike deserves it more than most. For all that John grieves Helen's loss, he wouldn't trade the years they'd spent together for the world.
But he can't grieve anymore. Can't lose anymore. Having friends, or lovers, it feels like he's setting himself up to fall, just when he's getting back on his feet.
Helen would say a life without love isn't worth living, Marcus would tell him you can't love without loss, but neither of them are here.
"I'm sorry."
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He took a step forward, gripping the front of John's shirt as he pulled him in, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I won't bloody well let you, you hear me?"
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"I ain't going nowhere." A bit of that old rough creeps back into John's voice, already thick with emotion and drink. The low-talk he'd left at the doorstep of The Continental, along with his sneakers, after walking away from his life as a grunt, and becoming a professional.
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He lets go of him after that, but there's still a grip around his wrist that he looks at, then back up at John as if to prove his point.
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"I don't know what world I'm in, anymore. You met the me who had a place, and knew who and what he was, but I'm not that man, anymore. I'm still figuring it out." His eyes burn into Spike's eyes. If there's a monster in front of him, he's not seeing it. John only sees a man, one capable of as much hurt as he is.
"If you think you can handle that, I s'pose I could, too."
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And John was doing a very good job of pissing off both the man and the monster.
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"This place ain't the half of it. I was retired. I had given all that up, all of it, for her. Then I lost her, and that life, and now I don't have anywhere. I can't go back to the man I was, and I..." John's eyes cast down, teeth gritting.
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He shoved a finger at John's chest. "You don't get to decide to half live through life, you twit. You do it or you die. Is that what you want? You want to die?"
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"You still gonna do it?" Equal parts dare and proposition, in a voice so raw Spike can practically taste the blood on John's breath beneath the whiskey. John doesn't know what he wants from Spike, but he knows he doesn't want him to leave.
He's cursed, there's no doubt of that, but maybe he's lucky, too, and John's always liked playing the odds. It's the only way he plays at all.
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He felt the knee between his legs, felt John trying to gain the upper hand, and he decided to turn the tables on him. In that quick too-fast motion vampires had, he moved, slipping out of John's hold and pressing the man's face to the wall, covering John's back with his chest as he pinned him there, not letting him move. "This what you want, Wick? You want someone else to do the living and dying for you?"